A Better Place
by The Half Mad Muggle
Summary: Severus Snape has wished for only one thing.


A Better Place

_Severus Snape dreams of only one thing. A better place._

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He did not Apparate gracefully. That was far too much effort. Instead, he landed on his hands and knees, the ground spinning beneath him. He tried to raise his head, but that only caused his vision to blur and blacken.

His head was aching. More than an ache. It was throbbing, and he wanted to lift his hand to massage his forehead, but he could not manage. Sweat was beading on the skin above his eyebrows.

His eyes were tired. They were dry, as if someone had rubbed sand against his irises. That surprised him. It had only been an hour since they had streamed tears. Tears of pain. Tears of injustice.

His lip was bleeding. He could taste the metallic sting on the back of his tongue. Had he bitten his lip? He did not recall. Much of the past few hours had escaped him.

He wished he could escape too. But escape was not an option. It never had been.

His muscles were seizing. He wanted to pick himself up from the grass, but his body would not respond. His lungs were burning, his heart was pounding, and his stomach was churning.

He collapsed forward onto the ground. The firm surface was just too tempting, it could help to steady him, anchor him in a world where everything was pain and darkness and hopeless.

There was blood on his shirt. Front and back. Gashes torn in his white skin, ripping him open to reveal bone and flesh. He could smell fresh meat, and knew he was smelling himself. There was another scent. Almost sweet. It threatened to turn his stomach once more. He did not wish to be sick again.

His hands were shaking. He used them the push himself up from the ground so he could roll onto his back. He held one out before him. The fingers were trembling. It was not of their own accord—the Cruciatus had scrambled his nerves so his brain no longer controlled his movements.

He was twitching like the dying spider—and in that moment, he wished he was. Dying, that is. Never had he felt so much pain. Never had he felt so much darkness. Never had he felt so hopeless.

He stared up at the stars above him. A midnight sky, awash with twinkling lights. He watched them for a moment. The night air froze his lungs as he breathed in, and it hurt. He blinked, and saw black spots before his eyes. His hand fell back down to his side.

How much longer? How much more?

Why couldn't he end this?

He turned his head to one side, no longer willing to stare at the freedom of the void that stretched out before him. He had no way of ending it. Not tonight. He could try to reach for his wand, but it would do him no good. He was tired. His energy was drained, extracted from his veins by his cruel master and the even crueller ivory wand.

He could not cast a spell, even if he wished to.

He clenched his fingers, raking them through soil and grass. Dirt already lay beneath his fingernails from the torture session. The only way to cope with the Cruciatus was to focus on other things. He had memorised every tiny detail about his fingers; the way his knuckles smoothed when he curled them into fists. The sharp sting when his nails dug into his palms. The small curved marks that were left behind, long after the pressure had been released.

Tonight had changed him.

It was not the intensity of the torture session—for he had been tortured before. Despite its power and ability to cause such debilitating, terrible, awful pain, the Cruciatus would never come close to the damage he had caused himself over time. The memories and the nightmares did more than the Cruciatus ever could. It was not the pain that had changed him.

It was not the reason for the torture—for he was more than used to his master's mood swings, how quickly someone could fall to his knees before him, suddenly the puppet on the strings of a man who knew not what stability or sanity was. The fact that he had been in the Circle on the night the Prophecy had been destroyed had been enough of a reason for torture. It was not the reason that had changed.

It was the future. The fact that, when he looked into the future, he did not see any relief. He did not see an end. He did not see a light. He saw only more nights like tonight, which would cause him pain, and would continue to haunt the images he saw in the day and the visions that plagued him at night for the rest of his life. He saw only more scars added to his already blemished skin.

He did not wish for many things in life. He knew that life was unfair, and that it would never be fair. He did not expect it to, for he had caused so much, committed so many sins, that he did not deserve a good, fair and just life.

But he did wish, now, for a better place. Somewhere he could be safe. Somewhere where he was not waiting for the burn on his arm, inviting him to another night of suspense and agony. Somewhere where, when someone called his name, he did not have to swallow the fear that flashed inside his heart.

A better place, where he could be at peace. Why would no one provide him with such a thing? He had turned to the light, had turned to the great and the good Albus Dumbledore, and still he was trapped in his world of pain and darkness and hopelessness.

Because now, he had a new captor.

Did he not deserve a better place? Even after everything he had done? Everything he had withstood? Everything he had lost?

There were footsteps. He could hear them thudding toward him, across the grass, muffled slightly by the soil.

He knew who it would be. It was the man who knew that he did not deserve a relief. The great and the good were not always great and good. They needed people. They needed someone to do their bidding, the things that they would not do. They needed pawns and slaves.

They needed someone who was so far gone, they dreamed only of a better place, and the vague promise that when they had succeeded in their mission, they would reach that place.

He knew that it was manipulation. But what else did he have?

The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, he had the wild thought that maybe the great and the good would take pity. Maybe they would draw their own wand, and ease his suffering, end his pain, light the darkness and ignite the hope. Maybe they could send him to a world where there was a better place for him.

"Get up." Albus Dumbledore's voice is hard, and he almost winces. He does not want to admit that he cannot move, because he will not show that weakness. So he forces himself to roll onto his front and put out his hands.

When his arms do not support his weight, there is no supporting hand to help him. He has to summon the strength himself, knowing that every pathetic move is being watched. The humiliation forces his cheeks to burn, and he blinks the hot water from his eyes and tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

He manages to reach his knees, and then he stares up at the older wizard, who watches him for a moment. He wonders if now is the time to beg him. Beg him to send him to a better place.

"Get yourself cleaned up. I expect to see you at breakfast tomorrow." And Albus Dumbledore turns. And Albus Dumbledore walks away. And the great and the good, the Lord of the Light, the famed and the beautiful Albus Dumbledore...does not look back.

He glances at the sky. Still the stars twinkle. One day, he is sure, the torture will be too much. He will not be able to breathe enough air into his lungs. His heart will be beating too hard, too fast. His stomach will be churning too much, and he will be lost in a world where there is too much pain, there will be too much darkness, and there will be too much hopelessness.

Maybe that will be his ticket. To a better place.

He raises his shaking hand to his cheek. A single tear has been released from its prison, but he is happy to let it fall.

One day he will find a better place. But tonight, his greatest want, has been denied once again.


End file.
